


Wildfire

by BuboMuzziusFTW



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Some OC's - Freeform, Sprace if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 06:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4736909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuboMuzziusFTW/pseuds/BuboMuzziusFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"D'ya ever think I could burn this place down?"</p>
<p>A story of Fire and Spot's decent into madness. (Based off the song Wildfire, by Sonata Arctica)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildfire

**Author's Note:**

> Ha... Look at that. I finally finished something

He stared hard at the fire for some time, swallowing hard before turning away.  
  
 _You did it. Just finish what you started..._  
  
And once he turned his back to Brooklyn, he never looked back.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Manhattan had an official leader once, and ran the island similarly enough to Brooklyn that it has been said that even Spot Conlon had started to come into power by following his lead. Of course, these days, Spot denies any connection to the old King of Manhattan, and it is now a generally accepted truth.  Though, mostly just because the newer kids don't know, and the rest know that no one ever questions Spot.  
  
His name was Patrick, anyway, or so the story goes. He was tall, at least compared to the rest of the newsies, and it almost made him look skinnier and more under-fed than his boys. But he was known mostly for the mass of flame-red curls that you could probably recognize from the opposite ends of Central Park, and had earned him the name that the newsies actually cared about.  
  
Apparently, his mother is still looking for him, and no one questions why no one ever told her, either. Maybe just because no one cares about another one of the Irish kids named Patrick.  
  
Maybe because it’s become a rule to never talk about Wildfire.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Selling in Sheepshead certainly had its benefits, and Racetrack was well aware of this. He milked every advantage for all it was worth, and had been doing his thing for long enough to know just how to do so. The races were his territory, no matter what borough they were in, and he was confident that he knew the situation inside and out. He was almost just as much an accepted Brooklyn newsie as he was in Manhattan, and thought he had a good hand in the politics on both sides of the bridge.  
  
But what he didn’t realize was that it also gave him a front row seat to see the fall of Spot Conlon, and watch how the empire he’d been building up since he was nine crumble, torn apart one lie at a time.  
  
It was already long past saving when Race finally noticed the differences in Spot’s behavior. The subtler differences in the dark circles under Spot's eyes and the growing severity towards his own boys had just slipped past Race's notice, but there was definitely something wrong before he could see the cuts in Spot’s fingers and the way he would stare at a lit match before actually lighting a smoke.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
No one ever questioned Spot Conlon, but that’s how he wanted it.  
  
The bow was in even worse shape than the fiddle itself, more hair broken than intact. The broken pieces ran over the strings at will, vaguely following the rest of the bow and adding a few extra scratches to the already rough, angry sound. But the fiddle fell easily into place in his hands, its weight familiar and comforting.  The wood was worn and clearly old, but it still played loud enough to drown out his thoughts, and that was all he needed.  
  
The bunkhouse went silent as soon as the instrument hit his shoulder, and most of the few newsies that were there took that as their cue to leave, taking the rest of the younger ones with them. They knew his moods well enough, and hardly considered it safe for any of them once he started playing. Then again, none of them really knew what was happening, or what caused it, or why Spot would do this more and more frequently as the days went on.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
But why wouldn’t they believe him?  
  
Racetrack stood in the middle of the Manhattan Lodging house, out of breath from running all the way back. He was the only one who seemed to move, panting heavily as he searched each face for any sign of movement, reaction, anything.  
  
Jack swallowed hard, hauling himself slowly onto his feet, voice shaking slightly as he approached him. His eyes were as wide and disbelieving as all the others’ despite his need to take initiative.  
  
“Woah… Slow down, Race. Start over, what’s goin’ on?”  
  
“He’s tryin’ to burn all of it to the ground… Brooklyn’s burnin’.”  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
 _They all stared._  
  
 _So that was it then. He had become Wildfire._  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
 _What’s wrong now? We know you saw something…_  
  
Spot had growled low in his throat, sawing harder into the strings, adding as many extra turns and complications to the melody as he could while seamlessly almost doubling the tempo. The strings burned under his fingers, and he could feel that playing any harder would have them bleeding. Fighting to keep his mind blank, Spot closed his eyes and relished in the dark emptiness and the burn in his fingertips and tired muscles, almost finding a sort of peace in himself.  
  
The bunkhouse was now entirely empty as well, but Brooklyn was lost to him now.  
  
 _You saw the Fire, didn’t you? But he’s all talk now and you know it. Talk and evil eyes._  
  
His fingers fumbled slightly, and the notes were shaky for a moment before he corrected himself, swearing under his breath. The hollow, echoing voices rumbled with laughter, despite how hard Spot tried to force them out of his mind.  
  
 _Neither of us are going anywhere, Spot. You can’t get rid of us that easily._  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Too much had already happened once the boys from the City arrived, but they’d never had a good idea of what they should have expected. Brooklyn was still Brooklyn after all, even as it got darker and the smoke got thicker.  
  
But there were obvious signs that something was very, terribly wrong.  
  
There were always boys that found anyone who trespassed on Brooklyn territory, and made sure they were only there for a strict purpose. The Brooklyn newsies were all a very tight-knit group, and guarded their territory with everything they had. And everyone was slightly uneasy as they were all greeted with silence. All the newsies seemed to have left the streets, which meant something had definitely happened here.  
  
Race gritted his teeth, feeling all eyes on him. Even Jack had backed off a bit, leaving him to be one to lead the Manhattan crowd. Naturally, most of them were somewhat nervous, if not because of Brooklyn, then because according to him, Spot was insane.  
  
It didn’t exactly seem to help that their ‘leader’ wasn’t any more confident than the rest, either.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

"D'ya ever think I could burn this place down?"

_Of course. Brooklyn's yours to destroy._

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

He stared hard at the fire for some time, swallowing hard before turning away.  
  
 _"You did it. Just finish what you started..."_

"Go to Hell!”  
  
Spot’s eyes narrowed at the boy who was still right in front of him, barely more than a black silhouette against the lodging house as it burned. Spot tried concentrating on not feeling the dozens that were trained on him, watching him quiver in rage and a sort of crippling fear the Brooklyn boys had never seen. Fear had never suited him, but apparently, neither had sanity.  
  
 _"You did this, Conlon. You know I’m not even here!"_

He was so shaken and hurt that his legs suddenly gave out on him, leaving the infamous Spot Conlon on his knees in front of what newsies were left in Brooklyn, maniacal laughter ringing loud in his ears.  
  
“I… would never. I’m just-“  
  
He cut himself off, watching the King of Manhattan dissipate slowly, his grin spreading much too far across his face as he disappeared.  
  
“WILDFIRE!”  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Neither of us are going anywhere, Spot. You can’t get rid of us that easily.  
  
Spot’s eyes snapped back open, and his playing slowed, but the words caught in his throat as he was about to say them.  
  
“Why… Why'd you even come back?” He somehow managed the words, sounding much more confident than he felt, before realizing he was completely alone in the bunkroom. “… None of you are even alive.”  
  
 _“What are you saying about me?”_  
  
The voice was eerily familiar, and Spot shivered slightly at the all-too-normal tone.  
  
 “… Wildfire?”  
  
 _“The one and only.’’_  
  
Wildfire had been dead for years. Spot had seen him die, and had thrown the body into the harbor himself since everyone else refused to do anything, and he deserved something more than leaving his charred remains to rot in an alley.  
  
Yet, as soon as Spot looked, there he was. Casually leaning up against the doorframe, as if he’d lived in there all his life, and a slight, mischievous smirk playing across his lips.  
  
Spot knew well that there was no way that anyone could have gotten into the bunk house that quietly, and especially since his boys knew well enough that anyone this important should be let in properly, even if he’d been dead for years.  
  
Spot lowered his fiddle slowly, setting it aside delicately before grabbing his slingshot.  
  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Pale eyes searched frantically for answers, and Spot could feel himself coming apart.  
  
He could see in the eyes of his boys that they no longer saw him as the high king of Brooklyn. He was nothing to them now, he was now this terrified mess, covered in blisters and blackened burns. Spot Conlon was now the one who tried to kill them all, yelling at someone long dead and almost leaving himself in the middle of the fire he started, making him worse off than pretty much everyone else.  
  
And though Spot chose to ignore it, part of him knew it would have just been easier to just burn to death in the fire he’d started.  
  
He had always essentially been Brooklyn, and now he and Brooklyn had both turned on each other and all they had to do was let the fire eat away at both of them until one was destroyed.

So that was it then. He had become Wildfire.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------  
 _What would we like to do to the town?_

His eyes were wide, and stung from unshed tears and lack of sleep.

"I'm burnin' it down."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

When it started, the voices had just been how he'd figure things out. At first, they sounded just like Spot's own voice, and they'd ask questions about whatever had to be done for Brooklyn. What this would mean for everyone else, was it justified, and so on. Talking things out in his head only made Spot more confident and decisive, and everything was nearly running perfectly.

Spot was twelve when things turned for the worse.

He and his boys were gathered around the small flame in their lodging house's  fireplace, trying to dry their coats and melt the cold numbness out of their skin. Spot just watched the fire dance, smiling a little to himself.

"D'ya ever think I could burn this place down?"

Everyone had turned to him with vaguely worried expressions before he even realized he'd said anything out loud.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

His eyes were wide, and stung from unshed tears and lack of sleep as he crushed the remains of his cigarette under his foot.

"I'm burnin' it down."

"What?" Race looked up suddenly, pushing off the wall and trying to meet Spot's blank stare.

Spot swore, smiling bitterly as he looked down to watch his hands start to shake.

"I can't do this anymore... They're gonna kill me, Race. B-but it won't matter. No... Not if it's all gone..."

"You're scarin' me-"

Spot just laughed at that, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall after a moment.

"You better go home... Can't let you burn with us."

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Watching the wood finally catch fire had been the only thing to make Spot Conlon smile in far too long. He stood back, poking a little at it with his cane then turning and starting to leave before the floor burned under him.

Not once did he wonder if there was better tinder than the fiddle.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Neither of us are going anywhere, Spot. You can’t get rid of us that easily._

_\--------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_"You did this, Conlon. You know I’m not even here!"_

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

No one ever questioned Spot Conlon, but that’s how he wanted it.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Too much had already happened once the boys from the City arrived, but that didn't stop them from trying to call out to Spot as he slowly stood, raised a shaking fist, and walked back into the burning lodging house.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

They say that there was a week or two after the fire, that the newsies suddenly went quiet. People were almost horrified of never again hearing them on the streets or being able to sit down and read their regular, day to day paper.

But even if you were able to have caught a newsie and asked him about it, you wouldn't gotten anywhere. In Brooklyn, you wouldn't have even gotten a coherent answer.

_...Maybe because it’s become a rule to never talk about Spot. _


End file.
